Dirty

“Why the fuck are you wearing these, Lydia?”

“Because I’m a fool?”

He chuckled.

“I didn’t know what you were planning,” I complained.

“Assume I always want to fuck you. That would be safest.”

His mouth covered mine and he kissed me deep and wet. Mutual masturbation worked well. I fondled and caressed his cock, doing my best to drive him insane. While he did likewise, curling in his fingers and sliding his knuckles through my wet slit. Every muscle between my neck and knees tensed, it felt so good. The boy gave me bliss, pure and simple. Then he broke the kiss and licked the pad of his thumb before going to work on my clit. God, he was good at this, his touch just right. His hand stretched the elastic in my panties, making room for him to play. Happy chemicals made my head spin round, my whole world was in a daze. I almost forgot to keep stroking him. Sad, because the feel of him thickening in my hand was sublime. Not something I’d ever want to miss.

“Cum on me.” I nipped at his lips.

“That what you want? You want my cum on your soft skin?”

I nodded my head, milking him harder with every stroke.

“No. Not this time.” He pulled his hand out of my panties, a crying shame. Then he drew the condom out of his back pocket and ripped it open with his teeth. I made a truly sad sound when he pried my fingers off of his cock and rolled it on.

“Scoot your ass down a little,” he said, drawing me closer to the edge of the seat. “Why couldn’t you want a bigger car?”

“Why couldn’t you cum on me?”

The sides of his lips hitched up. He pulled aside my stretched underwear and carefully lined his cock up with my opening. In one smooth thrust he filled me, both of us moaning. Loudly.

“Oh god.” My eyelids fluttered, my insides doing the same. Indescribable. That’s what having him inside of me felt like. Every good thing, everything bright and shiny. But more, so much more. And the way he looked at me, studying my every expression, gauging my every move. I don’t know why, but having such total committed focus from him nearly undid me. I almost cried for the second time today.

“That’s why I couldn’t cum on you,” he whispered in my ear. “Because I needed to do this.”

I had no words. Happily, none was required.

Slowly, deliberately, he made love to me. Crammed into the passenger side of a test vehicle which now definitively must be mine. Of all the places to have a meaningful moment. He rocked in and out of me, taking his time, building the passion between us. Our connection was absolute and always would be. No matter where he went. No matter what he did. I’d lost a part of myself to him that I’d never get back. Hell, I gave it, even knowing it wasn’t smart and I might regret it one day soon.

Hearts are so stupid.

Gradually he increased his pace. My legs were wrapped around him, holding on tight. Sweat soaked both our skins. We moved as best we could, reaching for the peak, clinging together. It went on and on, and yet was over all too soon. I angled my hips up, taking him deep. He plowed into me with great purpose. One hand tangled in my hair and the other taking some of his weight. The sound of our frantic breathing, of our bodies slamming together filled the small space.

And still it surprised me. My orgasm ripped out my lungs. I silently cried out, my cunt clutching at him as my heart skipped a beat. My whole body shook beneath him as he groaned my name, pressing his cheek bruisingly hard against mine. Apparently, the French refer to an orgasm as the little death. However, that didn’t cover it. Try the mass murder of all of my hopes and dreams. It shouldn’t have felt so astonishingly mind-numbingly superb to fall for a man who’d never be mine. But it did.

Love sucks.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Strange things were afoot at the Dive Bar the next day. Saturday, the anniversary of my botched wedding. Hooray.

Nothing of any great interest had happened after our sexcapades in my new car. We went back to see Mitch at the dealership, who gave our skewed clothing dubious looks. He visibly relaxed after I told him I’d be buying the vehicle. Vaughan had gone quiet, but then so had I.

We went to work. And when we got back to his house exhausted after a long night, we went to sleep, together in the same bed.

But back to today.

Brett Chen, the reporter, lounged against his car parked opposite my place of work. He pulled out his Canon and started snapping photos of Vaughan and me as we were walking inside.

“Talk to me, Lydia,” he yelled from across the street. “I’ve got a big-name magazine taking the story. Nationwide distribution. A lot of money.”